


The House on the Highway

by MichaelJM



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23537980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichaelJM/pseuds/MichaelJM
Summary: A man must deal with the death of his father, returning to his boyhood hometown where nightmares of forgotten family members and an ill-advised childhood visit come back to haunt him...
Kudos: 1





	The House on the Highway

**I**

Jefferson Eliot received the news of his father's death from a disinterested, businesslike voice on the other end of his office phone. His only responses were occasional acknowledgements when the voice on the phone seemed to require it. When the speaker paused briefly then said “I'm sorry for your loss”, Jefferson's only thought was to doubt it: the caller, the attorney representing his father's estate, conveyed no interest in dialog beyond presenting the facts, and obviously had little experience of feigning sincerity when uttering phrases of condolence.

“Thank you, I will contact your office and let you know when I can be there.” Jefferson hung up the phone and returned to his work. He was glad that the person conveying news of his father's death had not felt the need to prolong the conversation. His father was dead, and that was all the information he needed. A minute or so after returning to his work, he started to think with irritation of how much turmoil this would cause in his life.

He sat back in his chair and looked around his office, frowning at his glass, chromed steel, and faux wood surroundings. On the wall opposite his desk were examples of bland postmodern artwork that were supposed to give clients the impression that they were in the presence of a person with tastes that conformed to their own, but Jefferson saw nothing but the dull, uninspired work of artists who were out to make a quick buck from easy targets. He had always hated those paintings, but could not remove them as they were permanently fixed to the wall.

Getting up from his desk, he walked across the expensive marble floor to stand close to the ceiling to floor windows. He thrust his hands into his pockets and surveyed the Atlanta skyline surrounding him. He had lived in this city for more than half a decade now, but he didn't feel as though it was home, or that it ever would be. The concrete and glass monstrosities around him always reminded him of how different this city was from his native New England, and he thought of why he had come here in the first place.

As Jefferson entered his teens, his father had been pleased that he showed an interest in architecture, and hoped that he would follow in his footsteps and attend Miskatonic University. Jefferson had been drawn to the reputation of Xavier Winn, a professor at Miskatonic with an international reputation for being an expert in early American architecture. Unfortunately, Winn had left Mistatonic around the same time that Jefferson had first encountered his work, but he persuaded his father to allow him to attend the small, remote college on the outskirts of Atlanta where Winn had moved to after leaving his post at Miskatonic.

Winn had recognized a kindred spirit in Jefferson after a few post-lecture discussions, and within a month or so started to take him on many extracurricular excursions to study buildings in some of the older and more obscure communities of the South. He also encouraged Jefferson to question many of the assumptions and ‘facts’ that he would find in the standard texts used by other professors at the college.

After graduation, he had willingly taken employment with a large firm of architects in Atlanta as he did not want to lose his friendship with Winn. At first Jefferson had found the same enjoyment that he found in exploring the architecture of his home town, but as Winn aged and retired, and he saw the old buildings of the South razed to make way for new, faceless neighborhoods devoid of any character, he became more withdrawn and less likely to go looking for the old towns that Winn had previously introduced him to.

From a corporate perspective, he was viewed as a great asset to his employer, as he managed to consistently provide highly original designs for clients who marveled at his unconventional and elaborate drawings for their new homes. However, from the perspective of his own office, he was viewed as antisocial and unapproachable: he could easily go a week or more without uttering a single word to anyone else in the office.

Occasionally he would be asked to change certain aspects of his architectural designs as they were deemed too confusing and difficult to build, even for the progressive firm that he worked for. He would note with indifference the confused looks on people’s faces after his designs were reviewed by his peers, but it did not concern him - he simply moved on to the next job that was given to him.

At times he would allow himself to wonder why he stayed here, and frown as he realized how long he had remained with a company that had done nothing but try to limit his imagination. Since the sudden death of Winn a year after he started at the company, he had become more and more withdrawn from the people in his office. All of them seemed to have gained employment from learning the bare minimum about architecture, and had no desire to do anything beyond rehashing the designs that could easily be found in the pages of magazines in any doctor or dentist’s waiting room. He had looked for opportunities at other firms and in other cities, but would get the same polite declines in the mail after they had met him in person. The only benefit from being at this firm was that the rich, vulgar inhabitants of this city would pay to build his designs, no matter how extravagant they were. They were crude, unsophisticated people who swore and high-fived in delight when they saw Jefferson’s extraordinary designs that builders dumped on the well-manicured lawns of their gated suburban communities.

The rest of the work day was like any other day. He allowed himself no more thought of his father until he had left the office, when he considered that he would have to travel to Arkham in person to deal with his father's affairs.

On the walk back to his apartment he thought about his father’s house on the outskirts of Arkham, and assuming he would inherit it, realized that this was not something he could deal with in a day or two. He would have to go in tomorrow and tell his manager that he would need an extended time away from the office.

As usual, he arrived at the office an hour before anyone else drifted in, and immediately sent a brief email to his superior requesting time off. A few minutes after 10 am, his manager knocked at his door and entered.

Paul Hamby was not much older than Jefferson, but had risen quickly in the company by going to the right parties where he would sell his staid, cliched designs to the crude, drunken boors who were using their riches to buy the class and sophistication they were obviously lacking. As the regional manager, he was Jefferson’s immediate superior, but he deliberately avoided any contact with him unless it was for something that he could find no good excuse to avoid.

“Jefferson, I got your email...is everything alright?” Hamby was doing his best to talk neutrally, but inside he was cursing at the fact that his best asset might not be available to make the firm money.

Not receiving an answer other than a slight puzzled look on Jefferson's face, Hamby held in his irritation and continued. “Do you know how much time you need off?”

“I don't know. My father died and I have to put his affairs in order. I don't know how long these things take.”

He had been Jefferson's immediate superior at the office for two years now, and could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of conversations he had with Jefferson about anything that wasn't work-related. His immediate reaction to hearing this was to think of being sympathetic in the same way that he would to anyone else, but this was Jefferson Eliot, so he thought better of it. Clearing his throat nervously he continued: “I see. I'm sorry. Let me talk to HR and we'll work something out”.

Jefferson returned his focus to work as if the conversation had come to a logical conclusion, not looking up at his manager again. He hoped that he would get a clear answer today and that he could work out the details of what he had to do quickly. Hamby, realizing that the conversation was over, quickly left to avoid having any further conversation with Jefferson.

The answer came much sooner than Jefferson expected: an email from HR arrived within the hour, asking for his acknowledgement of a temporary transfer request to the Arkham satellite office so that he could deal with his “family issues”. He sat and digested this piece of information, and then typed his brief acknowledgement and hit send.

*

Later that evening Jefferson sat in his small apartment eating dinner while browsing his company's web site for information on what was to be his new office for the next couple of months. He hadn't previously been aware of how many offices they had along the Eastern Seaboard, and certainly wasn't aware of the office in Arkham. It appeared to be located in a small business park halfway between Arkham and Danvers. He had no recollection of it being there in his youth, and from the pictures on the website, it seemed to be a modern, characterless edifice, completely at odds with the architecture of Arkham and the surrounding area.

A small suitcase and two cardboard boxes sat near the door ready to be loaded into his car in the morning. Jefferson had paid the elderly landlord two months rent in advance with a promise to mail additional rent if he had not returned within those two months. He had hoped to retain the apartment in the old Queen Anne style house, as he would not be able to find something similar so easily; he hated the thought of living in one of the high rise condos that surrounded this beautiful old building. He hoped that this could be dealt with quickly, so planned to drive there non-stop.

Jefferson wished that there were not so many unknowns in all this upheaval, and went to bed unable to sleep. He started thinking about his upbringing in New England, and in particular of his family and the old house that they grew up in.

He remembered his childhood walks through the narrow streets of Arkham, where he grew up. At first he was limited in how far he could walk due to his young age, but as soon as his parents allowed him to walk beyond the end of their street he was always begging to be allowed to wander ever greater distances.

Those walks had at first been to explore the wonderful, old buildings that intrigued him, and sparked his interest in architecture, but as he got older they developed into extended visits to abandoned buildings, cemeteries and burial grounds in and around the town. These places held more and more interest for him, and sometimes he would spend all day in a single location.

As his eyes closed, Jefferson found himself wandering in one of the strange vistas that often haunted his dreams. The strange forms of buildings that did not exist in his waking hours passed him by as he wandered through the streets of cities much older than the town of his childhood.

Drifting into deeper sleep, he found himself on a walk that seemed to take paths he had followed before. After some time, he wandered into a building that looked familiar, where he could hear voices that were known to him. Things became less dreamlike and more focused when he stopped to listen to the words. He had encountered upon an argument between two men, one of whom was raising his voice, and another whose calm voice held his attention more strongly. This was a scene he had played out before: he realized that he was reliving the one occasion upon which he had met his paternal grandfather.

As a child he had come home one evening from exploring a particular tomb located in one of the town's oldest cemeteries that had drawn his interest, and heard raised voices in the kitchen. Not wanting to intrude, yet interested in why the argument was taking place, he crept quietly into the adjacent dining room.

“Of course the boy will be drawn to those places. It is his heritage, and thou knowest that.” said a deep and resonant voice that was unknown to Jefferson.

“You have no right to be here! You were told before that you are not wanted here and that you will never have access to the child!” shouted his father, in a voice that trembled with both anger and fear.

“Thou wast not able to stop me entering his house tonight, and thou hast not the power to stop me any other night.” replied the other voice.

The young Jefferson had let curiosity overwhelm him, and could not resist looking inside of the room to catch a glimpse of this stranger speaking in archaic phrases who had caused his father to be so angry and scared. His intention had been to simply look and then withdraw his face, but catching sight of the stranger, he found himself unable to take his eyes away from the man.

Dressed in what seemed to be the clothes of a hundred years prior to current times, was a powerfully built man in his sixties with black hair and thick black beard flecked with a few gray hairs. What prevented Jefferson from looking away from this man was the eyes – jet black pupils that seemed to be the source of a power that Jefferson felt drawn to – eyes that lacked a soul, but had something far more powerful and compelling in its place.

“Ah! This must be the child!”

“You keep away from him!” spat his father, who moved to a position between the man and Jefferson, pulling a meat cleaver from the knife rack on the counter next to Jefferson.

The stranger threw back his head and laughed a deep, hearty laugh, full of scorn and contempt. “Thou thinkest _that_ will in any way deter me?”

“Dad, what is going on?”

“Quiet boy!”

“Thou wouldst deny the child access to his grandfather?”

“I would deny the child access to a creature like you! I have sent you money enough over the years to keep you away! What are you doing here? You want more? I can pay more! Just leave my family alone!”

The old man turned and clasped his hands behind his back. He walked slowly and deliberately to the other side of the kitchen and turned to face Jefferson and his father again. Jefferson’s father guided his son as far as possible from the other man, and held him in place by clenching his right shoulder tightly. In his other hand he grasped the meat cleaver just as tightly.

“It has not gone unappreciated that thou hast deigned to support thine own father financially. Yet it is strange that thou hast chosen to do it as part of a contract to keep me from mine own.”

Both men stared at each other from across the kitchen without a word being spoken until Jefferson’s father averted his eyes from the man’s gaze. Jefferson was digesting what he had just heard, and was still unable to take his eyes off the man who had just been identified as his grandfather: a person whom he had been told had walked out on the family when his father was very young.

“So be it!” said the old man. “I shall finding lodgings in the town, and we shall talk of this further on the morrow.”

“I will have no part of what you intend!”

“Thou hast no choice” retorted the old man in a calm yet unresistingly assertive voice.

Jefferson's father recoiled as if physically struck, and dropped the cleaver that had been clenched tightly in his hand until now.

The old man walked towards Jefferson, ran his hand through his hair playfully, then turned andleft through the back door without saying another word.

As soon as the old man had stepped completely out of sight, Jefferson's mother ran into the kitchen. She had obviously been waiting behind the door to the parlor, not being willing to enter the room while the old man was there. Quickly reaching her husband's side, she checked him over, continually asking if he was alright.

Nothing seemed to be physically wrong with Jefferson’s father, but he stood motionless without uttering a word. Jefferson's mother turned to him and asked him to go immediately to bed, and when he refused on the basis of his concern for his father, she pleaded with him to go upstairs. Finally she shouted at him hysterically until he complied.

He had not tried to sleep upon reaching his room, and lay on the bed awake for some hours until he heard distant sounds of fire engines. Throwing open his window he could see the glow of a blazing inferno towards the downtown area, followed by the rushing lights and noises of emergency vehicles as they sped down the main road partly hidden by the trees behind the house.

Downstairs there was no one to be found, neither his mother nor his father. The stone tiles were cold on his feet, so he sat in the old rocking chair in the corner of the kitchen and waited until he fell asleep. As the sun was rising, his mother returned, looking tired and old beyond her years. She pulled up a small stool and sat next to him, taking his hand in hers.

Jefferson must have fallen asleep again, but when he awoke, his mother was gone. That was the last time he ever saw her.

**II**

As he pulled onto I-85 in the fading light of the day, Jefferson was irritated to see that the traffic was heavier than he expected. His plan had been to avoid as much traffic as possible by passing New York City at night, and to arrive at his destination before morning rush hour started. He had also hoped that the journey to New York would be on relatively traffic free roads, but it seemed that his journey wasn’t starting as planned.

The dream from last night still played on his mind. It was probably one of the most lucid versions of the dream that he had ever had, and he couldn't shake the feeling that this was something more than a dream. He thought back to that fateful day when he had waited for his parents to return, but instead of his parents, the next person through the door was the police officer who had spoken kindly to him and spent most of the day with him. He had learned from the police officer that his father had been taken into custody as they suspected him of burning down the Grant Hotel. He had also learned of their ongoing search for his mother, and for one guest at the hotel who was still to be accounted for.

The District Attorney at first weighed the possibility of a murder charge as one hotel guest was never found nor traced, but with no body recovered, charges were limited to the arson that his father had perpetrated. His father plead guilty and received a five year sentence.

Jefferson’s Aunt Mildred moved into the house for the three years of the sentence that his father served, and made his life a misery. She disapproved of Jefferson's interest in burial places, and put a curfew in place so that he did not leave the house alone after dark. At first he disobeyed her, but found her formidable personality and liberal use of a thick leather belt she hung by the back door daunting enough to rein in those tendencies, at least temporarily. With his nocturnal activities curbed, Jefferson started voraciously studying architecture from any books he could find at the local library.

His father secured his release from prison early after three years of his sentence, and returned to the family house. Jefferson could barely contain his excitement as the day of his return approached, and he looked forward to a life without his Aunt Mildred. He had missed both his parents terribly over the past three years, and felt that a dark time in his life was coming to an end.

When he saw his father exit from the taxi that pulled up outside, Jefferson was ready to run out and meet him, but something in his father's demeanor stopped him before he moved away from the window he was looking from. His father had changed since the last time he had seen him during that argument with his grandfather, and he knew instinctively in that moment that their relationship would never be the same again. At eleven years of age, something inside of Jefferson changed forever.

Hating that his thoughts has slipped back to part of the childhood that he disliked to dwell upon, Jefferson focused his mind back to the road and started thinking of the miles ahead of him. He made good progress and within a few hours was in North Carolina, and estimated about three hours before crossing into Virginia. Trying to keep his mind from the thoughts of earlier, he visualized some of his half completed designs and started mentally constructing a belvedere at the rear of a house that a client was planning to build on a piece of lakeside property.

The miles were slowly being eaten away as the architecture of the house was being planned in his mind. Not only was he creating blueprints, he was also selectingbuilding materials, and giving consideration to building code and the position of every tree and bush on the plot of land. He had found from a young age that he had a talent for being able to visualize the most complex of spaces and to work entirely in his mind without the aid of drawing materials or software programs, and could then effortlessly reproduce these plans on whatever medium the design required.

When he completed this task, he started thinking of another unfinished task, one that had presented more problems than the lakeside property. The client was a bank executive who never seemed to turn up at his office sober, along with his plastic surgery obsessed wife, who seemed to relish criticizing anything her husband requested as part of the design. Most of what they asked for was in Jefferson's mind absurdly simple to execute, but the problem was more that the design changed every time they visited the office, and neither of them were willing to listen to the practical considerations that prevented their ever changing designs from being implemented. He had a feeling that he had been given this particular client because no one else wanted to deal with them, and every meeting was little more than listening to them list contradictory requirements and bicker with each other. They seemed to not notice Jefferson's presence in the office sometimes, and on one occasion not spoken a single word directly to him before leaving again.

The last time he met them he was asked the question “Can you do it?” He wasn't even certain what “it” was, but nodded in assent just before the bickering started again and they left the office without any further acknowledgement of Jefferson's presence.

Now that he thought about it again, he knew that he could do “it”, and the long drive was just the place to complete the design. All of the varied and conflicting requirements were gathered into his mind, and he focused on the plot of land that he had visited while the husband drank from a hip flask, and the wife engaged in a phone call about some impending surgical procedure. The design began to take shape in his mind, but then he ran into the problem of two particular conflicting architectural features and the impossibility of placing them in the same physical space.

Reaching this apparently unresolvable issue, his mind once again went back to his past, but this time it was not to his family members, but rather to his juvenile architectural studies. Once the small supply of architectural books from the local library had been exhausted, Jefferson began to ponder on his father's study of the same subject, and wondered if he could find any texts on the subject in the house. Aunt Mildred had forbid him from entering his parents' room, but one time when he was alone in the house he crept in and looked around.

It was much as he had always remembered it, only everything was covered in a layer of dust that his mother would never have allowed to gather on the furniture. No books were in view, so he opened the closet to look, and was disappointed to see nothing more than clothes and a few old shoe boxes. He lifted the lids of the boxes and found that they contained nothing more than photos, a number of vacation souvenirs and various knick knacks belonging to his mother. The only thing of interest he found was a small cloth bag containing an old, oversized key that he quickly pocketed at the sound of his aunt's car pulling onto the driveway.

Feeling it was less troublesome to keep the key and not attempt to return it, he took it from the house and hid it in a small tin box that he buried in the back yard when he knew his aunt’s watchful eyes were not on him. An opportunity to dig up the box did not arise the next day nor the day after, and as time passed, the urgency to dig it up again became less and less.

With no books found in the house, he started corresponding with his father and stating his intention to study architecture further, and soon after he received in the mail a number of excellent text books his father had directed his attorney to order.

When his father returned home, and Jefferson realized that he was still as alone has he had been while his father was incarcerated, he continued to study obsessively, asking his father to order books from all corners of the globe to satisfy his desire to learn more of historical styles of architecture, and of ancient edifices around the world. Jefferson's world only felt complete when he was able to apply himself to his study, and as he approached his middle teens, he felt that he had exhausted all sources of learning that were available to him.

With little hope of learning anything new, he sat in his room when not at school, aimlessly looking for something new in his well-thumbed books, and every weekday endured the living hell that was school, wishing he could be anywhere but that place. Every day was the same as the previous one, and a future where he might be able to progress beyond the simple math and geometry of his lessons seemed an eternity away.

That is, until he found the letter.

Returning home early from school one day as he could not bear the thought of attending the physical education class that afternoon, he saw smoke rising above the house, and surmised that it was coming from the back yard. Instead of entering at the front door, he walked around the side of the house to the back yard to see who may have set this fire. Surprisingly, he saw his father exit from the back door with an armful of papers and envelopes, looking far more animated than he had at any time since the day of the argument with Jefferson's grandfather. His father threw the papers onto a pile of already burning papers, and made sure that nothing escaped the flames by quickly grasping at any fragments that fell or blew from the fire and placing them at its center.

Jefferson stepped back before his father might turn and see him. What did this mean? Why was his father so intent on burning all of this material and of being certain that nothing escaped the flames? Not wanting to be noticed, he quietly returned to the front of the house and entered through the front door. He walked through to the kitchen and encountered a small,ancient looking wood and leather chest on the floor near the back door. Looking into it, he could see that it contained more papers and envelopes, but that very few were left. Not knowing why, he grabbed one and hastily stuffed it into his pocket before leaving the house through the front door again.

He walked perhaps half a mile from the house and then left the sidewalk and walked some distance into a small wooded area to sit down on the trunk of a fallen tree. Pulling the letter from his pocket, he looked at the name and address on the back – it was addressed to his father at their current address, in a flowing cursive hand that was unfamiliar to him. The return address was an Innsmouth address.

Pulling the letter from the envelope, he opened it and read:

' _Sir_

_Thou hast not the care of thine own that I would expect of thee! Understand that both he and his own will be drawn back. Many times have I told thee that the day of reckoning will come, yet thou hast ignored mine entreaties to be watchful of this day!_

_Shutting thy door in the face of thine own will not delay what is fated to be!_

_Pr._ '

The writing was in the same hand as the envelope, yet for all its seeming antiquity, looked to have been written on lined, modern paper.

Unsure of what the import of this letter was, Jefferson placed it back in the envelope and secreted it deep into his pocket before waiting an appropriate amount of time to return to the house as if he had completed school that day.

His father said nothing about the burning embers in the yard, and the leather encased chest was nowhere in sight when Jefferson returned and entered the kitchen. Once he was sure that his father was asleep, he crept into the back yard and dug up the tin box that had lain untouched in the back yard for years. He committed the Innsmouth address to memory, and placed the envelope in the box. Without consciously meaning to do so, he took the bag containing the key from the box and put it in his pocket. He also took the envelope back out of the box and pushed it into his pocket before reburying the box.

Again, Jefferson wondered why he was thinking about these things from the past. He looked up at the sign on the highway and realized that he was now more than half way across North Carolina. Sighing, he continued to think about the letter.

It was perhaps six months after finding the letter that Jefferson found the first opportunity to visit Innsmouth. His school had arranged a field trip to Ipswich to take a tour run by the Ipswich Historical Society, and its proximity to Innsmouth would possibly give him an opportunity to travel there. While no official bus timetables confirmed it, he found a few online references to a bus that ran between Ipswich and Innsmouth. He felt as if he was invisible to his teachers and classmates at school most of the time, so perhaps he would not be missed from the party if he could sneak away unseen.

**III**

Jefferson sat alone on a seat near the back of the bus to Innsmouth along with a handful of what he assumed to be Innsmouth residents, all sitting alone and clutching the scant bags of items they had purchased in Ipswich. Behind the wheel was the large, surly driver who had seemed reticent to allow him on the bus earlier. He suggested that he must have the wrong number bus, but acquiesced when he saw that Jefferson was adamant. As soon as the bus had left Ipswich behind, the number of buildings on the Innsmouth road started to dwindle quickly, until all that was left was the muddy fields with sparse patches of unhealthy grass growing here and there.

For the relatively short ride to the outskirts of Innsmouth, the sights from the bus windows were drab and universally uninteresting. When the first buildings of Innsmouth came into view, Jefferson was at first excited to see them, but disappointed in what he saw as the bus drew closer. He had expected to see old buildings that would speak to his architectural interests, but what he saw were dilapidated buildings that would have probably been preserved had there been any kind of historical society in town. Almost every building he could see looked as if it might fall to the ground at any moment, and in some cases that had already happened. The bus drove through deserted streets, which in places were barely wide enough to accommodate it, and these were certainly not roads that had been maintained in recent years.

People occasionally scuttled across the streets they traversed, all with the same kind of shuffling stride, and dressed in drab clothes that had seen better days. Some scowled at the driver of the bus, and to a few he returned a stare that spoke of intense dislike for these people.

The bus finally pulled up in the small town square to allow the passengers to disembark, although there was no sign of a bus stop or marker of any kind to indicate where Jefferson might pick it up again later. He stood and followed the other passengers towards the driver, who was rubbing his forehead in obvious irritation at how long they were taking to get off the bus, and summoned up courage to talk to him again.

“What time is the next bus back to Ipswich, and where do I pick it up?”

The driver laughed a guttural laugh and looked at Jefferson with amusement. “What are you doing here kid? You don't belong here: stay on the bus and I'll take you back right now. No charge.”

“But I'm looking for an address. It's important!”

“Suit yourself, but don't say I didn't offer. I'll be back here around 3pm, but if I get here and there's no one waiting, I'm not hanging around.”

Jefferson saw that the driver had nothing more to say, so he stepped off the bus, which pulled away as soon as he was clear of the doors.

He had come here without really having any plan, or knowing how he would find the address. His first thought was the people who had exited the bus with him, so he walked towards the nearest person and asked for directions. The only response he got was a dirty hand protruding from a threadbare sleeve being pointed over his shoulder. The lumbering collection of dirty clothes that had given him directions was already moving away, so with a shrug Jefferson pulled his school backpack higher on his shoulders and crossed to the shadowy street on the opposite side of the square.

When he got closer to the street, he realized why it was in shadow: the buildings were leaning inwards, overhanging the street and their almost touching gables allowed very little sun to reach the broken cobbled surface of the narrow road that ran between them. He checked the envelope for the address: 7 Waite Street. Looking around he could see nothing that indicated a street name. He did see a barely visible number 1 on the broken gate of the house to his right, so he started walking down the street to see if he could find other numbers. Neither of the next two houses had numbers, so he assumed that if the odd numbers were all on one side, then the fourth house should be number 7.

The house that he surmised to be number 7 was in a very sad state of repair. What was once a white picket fence was now nothing more than a jumble of moldy, broken wood laying at the edge of wildly overgrown grass and bushes that obscured the downstairs windows. One gate post was still standing at the beginning of a short path, and he could make out where the front door stood behind bushes to each side that had almost grown into each other.

Pulling his jacket downwards and the straps of his backpack tight, he took a couple of strides across the short front yard towards the door. Standing closer, he could see the outline of where a number 7 had once been attached to the door, so he confirmed that this was the correct house. Not knowing what else to do, he reached between the bushes and knocked on the door.

After waiting a minute or so, he knocked again harder. Again no one came to the door and he heard no noises from within.

He had come all this way, so he was not going to give up now. There was a narrow alleyway between each of the houses, so he chose the one to his left and walked down to see if there was a back door.

Despite the fact that it was daytime, the alleyway was in almost total darkness. With a hand on each wall, Jefferson walked slowly down until he reached the far end of the house. The alleyway continued towards a house behind this one, but the small back yard of each house had a high brick wall around it. The increase in sunlight as he reached the back yard walls revealed a narrow wooden door that looked like it would give access to the back yard of the house. Placing his hand on the latch, he tried to move it, but even applying pressure he could tell that the iron latch was hopelessly rusted in place. For a brief moment he thought of scaling the wall, but remembering that he was in a strange town, absent from a school trip, and did not know who lived in the house, he thought better of it.

Retracing his steps, he returned to the front of the house where he knocked a third time, rapping hard enough to hurt his knuckles. Waiting brought neither an occupant nor any noise from beyond the door. He turned and sat on the stone doorstep to think.

Why had he come here? What had he hoped to achieve? He had asked himself these questions on the bus journey here, but did not have any answers. He took the letter out and looked at the envelope again. He could be on the wrong street of course, but had no way of telling. If he was, he didn't know how he would find the right street if the locals were apt to misdirect him.

He put the letter down on the step, took off his backpack, and reached inside for the small cloth bag that contained the key. He took the old key out and looked at the worn designs that were barely visible, and noticed for the first time that they seemed to represent some sort of fish and human form intertwined. Half turning to inspect the door, he could now see from his sitting position that there was a lock mostly obscured by one of the bushes.

Thrusting the bush aside, he held the key close to the lock and realized that it might fit into the lock. Before his nerve gave out, he took the key and pushed it into the lock. He tried to turn it, but it wouldn't budge. Leaning his body against the bush so that he didn't have to hold it back with one hand, he took both hands and tried to turn the key. It turned a little, but then stuck less than a quarter turn from its original position. The problem was that he could not get a good grip on the key to be able to turn it in an old rusted lock like this one.

Unsure what to do in the light of this failure, he sat on the step again staring at the ground. He could see something half buried in the dirt at the bottom of the step, and out of curiosity pulled it out. It was the brass number 7 that had previously been screwed to the door, now green with verdigris, but possibly useful in helping to turn the key if it would fit into the loop at the end. He got to his feet again, and pushed the number through the end of the key, and when it place it gave him far better purchase to turn it. He took both hands and turned it will all his might. It slowly turned and after a rocking it back and forth a few times he heard a dull click from the lock.

He realized he had possibly just unlocked the door of a stranger’s house, so he paused and stood there for a while before doing anything else. He drew a deep breath, placed one hand on the door and pushed it, but the door didn't budge an inch. He placed both hands on the door and pushed harder, but still it didn't move. By the look of things, this door probably hadn't been opened for some considerable amount of time, so he prepared himself to throw his not particularly significant body weight against it. Before doing so he looked up and down the street to see if there were any witnesses, but it was still as deserted as the moment he first walked down it.

Taking a step backwards, Jefferson threw his weight against the door and felt it move very slightly. It didn't open, but he had felt some movement. He tried again, but then considered that he did not have the body weight to get the door opened. He slumped down on the step again, despondently.

Picking the envelope up from where he had left it on the step, he looked at the return address, and wondered again how he might determine if he was at the right address. He had no way of telling for sure, and if he didn’t get the door open now, he would never know what was on the other side.

Resolved that he would get in, he put the letter down on the step and stood to face it again. He picked up the backpack that sat next to the step and shouldered it again. Considering the problem for a moment he wondered if more momentum would make the door budge. After taking a few steps back from the door, Jefferson charged at it, this time not caring to check the street, and when he struck it the door opened half way. He quickly stepped through the gap and put his weight against it to close it again.

With the door closed, the house was too dark to make out his surroundings, but as his eyes adjusted he could make out the shape of the room he stood in. He was standing in a small foyer with steep stairs to his right, and open doorways ahead and on his left.

Again, the question of why he was here came back to him, and again he had no answer.

**IV**

Jefferson’s heart was racing as he took in the view that was slowly becoming clearer to him as he adjusted to the semi-darkness. He had a flashlight in his backpack, but was afraid that the light from it might be noticed from outside as the street was in so much shadow. There was an odor of extreme antiquity about the house; something he could not attribute to any one thing, but certainly dust, decay and a sharp odor that reminded him of chemistry classes at school.

He made a decision that he would investigate the room to the left, which must be facing the front of the house. As he moved his feet the thick carpet of dust was kicked up, and he coughed uncomfortably as it stuck to the back of his throat. He deliberately slowed the movement of his feet and moved silently on the thick carpet that had been deposited over the years.

Looking in through the doorway, he could see a few shafts of dim light penetrating the dirty windows and thick curtains, which made this room a little easier to see in. Old and partially collapsed furniture sat in the room, and on the right wall, was an opening without a door that led to what appeared to be a kitchen. Thinking that he had been in the house too long without announcing himself he timorously said “Hello” into the room.

Getting no reply, he turned to the doorway on his right, and looked into a room that was furnished similarly to the room he had just looked into, only there was a large fireplace on one wall that dominated the room. Again he spoke “Hello” into the room, a little louder this time, and his voice was once again unanswered.

Without any idea of what to do next, he thought that he might check upstairs as the higher rooms might be lit better from the outside. He placed a foot on the lowest step of the stairs and almost pulled the bannister down when he placed his hand on it to steady himself. Moving slowly and methodically (and without the use of the bannister), he climbed the stairs until he reached a landing where the stairs turned to the left, and then climbed the rest of the stairs with equal caution.

The top of the stairs was lit a little better as the curtains on the top landing window were more ragged than those downstairs. He crossed the landing to a hallway on the far right corner and looked down it. There were 2 open doorways on each side and a curtained window at the far end. He took a step down the hallway, but as he did so, a stench worse than anything he had ever encountered before hit his nostrils. Without any further thought of investigating these rooms, he turned and controlling his urge to run, walked down the stairs as carefully as he could. Even at the bottom of the stairs it was still with him. He must have disturbed something on the floor with his feet as he reached the upstairs hallway, but all he knew of its source was that it was something he wanted to keep away from.

Thinking that the furthest point from the awful smell would be the kitchen he had seen earlier, he walked through the room at the front of the house to reach it, forgetting to walk slowly and again choking and coughing at the dust that his feet kicked up.

A step or two into the kitchen he felt that the odor was less strong now, but it still permeated everything in the house. Looking for anywhere else he could go to, he studied 3 doors in the kitchen: one that appeared to be a back door, an open one that that led to a small room to his left, and a narrow door that was the closest one to him.

Thinking that a closed door would afford him the best protection from the stench, he tried to open it. The latch was broken so it opened easily enough, but the bottom of the door stuck as he pulled on the handle. He tugged a few times and the door was freed from the jamb. Peering inside he could see nothing but inky blackness.

Quickly rummaging in his backpack he found the flashlight he had brought with him and flicked it on. The light revealed that he was at the top of some old stone steps leading downwards to a room that he could not see far into because of the steep angle of the steps.

Feeling more confident now that he had the flashlight in his hand, he carefully started to descend, being careful where he stepped as the old stone was worn at the edges and it felt slick as he placed his weight on the first step. At the bottom of the steps, he found himself standing on a dirt floor in a large room that was probably the same size as the entire first floor of the house above. It contained many old crates and barrels and one wall had long shelves that contained many dust covered objects that were not immediately recognizable. This room also seemed to be the source of the smell he noticed when he entered that had reminded him of chemistry classes.

Walking between the barrels and crates, he noted the contents of each one: old bottles, piles of discolored papers, rusted metal tools, and many items that looked like they would be more at home in a museum rather than someone’s house. As the path through the containers took him away from the steps, it allowed him to shine the flashlight behind some stacked crates and on a door that he had not previously been able to see. It was a short door, possibly only his head height tall, but notable in that it was made of a dark shiny wood and deeply carved with hideous images of tentacles, fish and undecipherable glyphs.

Intrigued by the shapes on the door, he walked to it and studied them. At first he thought there must be something wrong with his eyes as he seemed to have trouble focusing, but as he looked over the carvings, he knew that there was something strange about their shapes. It was almost as if these carvings somehow did not conform to the rules of geometry that he had learned at school.

He had never seen anything quite like this before, but as he looked at the construction of these shapes, he decided that this was something he needed to understand: how was it possible to create a design like this?

There was no handle or latch on this door, but it looked like it opened away from him, so he placed both hands on the side opposite the large iron hinges. Pushing on the door was no easy task though, and it took his entire body weight to slowly force it open.

He immediately shone the flashlight around the room that lay beyond, noting it was probably beneath the street outside rather than under this house, but not quite deep enough to reach the house on the other side of the street. The walls of the room were barely visible because of the number of shelves attached to them. The only spaces between them were a space for a deep fireplace, and a corner with ‘L’ shaped bookshelves. He was certain that this room was the source of the chemical smell as it had become so much more pungent in his nostrils, and the large number of bottles containing powders and liquids that sat on the shelves seemed to confirm this.

Not knowing where to start in exploring this room, Jefferson moved to the center of the room and turned 360 degrees to survey all of it.

The wall of the door he entered through had shelves along the length of it, stacked with bottles and jars of all shapes and sizes, as did the wall to the left of the door. In the left corner opposite the door was a small table with a stool next to it, on which were a few bottles and beakers.

On the opposite wall to the door there were more shelves, and immediately opposite the door there was a small writing desk with a chair behind it.

To the right of the door was the wall that was the most free of shelves because of the large, deep fireplace in its center.

The dirt floor in this room seemed much damper than the main part of the basement, and Jefferson could feel the stickiness of the dirt as he walked across it.

Now that he had surveyed the room and was facing the fireplace, he noticed the dank draft that was coming from it, and the odor of decay that was only just drowned out by the smell of the various chemicals in the room. It also had more than a hint of the ocean about it. Shining the flashlight into the fireplace, he noticed that the flue did not go upwards, but instead went to the left. That probably made sense considering his estimate that this room sat immediately below the street, but he couldn’t imagine where it came out.

Turning back to the writing desk, he saw that there was a closed book laying on it. Walking behind the desk, he saw that there were also a number of pieces of paper on it, along with a dried up inkwell, and a well-used quill pen. The papers seemed to contain notes in what Jefferson recognized as Latin, but his Latin was not good enough to allow him to do more than recognize a few words.

The book looked very old, bound in dark brown leather and with metal reinforcement on the corners. It had no title on the cover, but considering its apparent age, it could be that the title had simply been erased with time. Looking on the spine gave him no clue to the content of the book either, so he reached out and gingerly lifted the cover. The first page was blank, as with any other book that he had seen, so he carefully turned the first of the discolored pages.

Latin! He cursed that he had made so little study of the language, but turned more pages anyway. In addition to the unreadable text, there were drawings on every second or third page; at first simple, but as he turned more pages they became ever more complex and impossible. He was as intrigued as he had been at seeing the carvings on the door to this room, and as he continued to turn the pages he realized that he would need time to study this book.

Whatever his reasons had been for coming here, he knew now that he had no further reason to stay. He unslung his backpack, and carefully placed the book inside, thankful that it fitted, as he now felt curiously protective of this book and did not want anyone else to know that he had it. Before he closed the backpack, he took the sweatshirt he had brought in the backpack, and fitted it over the book to obscure it from the view of anyone who casually glanced in the backpack.

As he was closing the zip on the backpack he heard a noise that he could only think to describe as a slapping sound. Shining the flashlight around the room he saw nothing, and smiled to himself, thinking it foolish that he thought anyone might be there as this was a dirt floor and nothing could make that sound against it.

Slinging the backpack again, he prepared to leave when he noticed that there was a drawer in the desk. Although eager to leave now that he had his prize, curiosity had taken over from his initial timidity, so he opened the drawer. Inside were a number of quill pens, inkpots, blades for sharpening quills, and a jumble of other small items. One item in particular caught his attention: a small circular stone pot with a lid that had carvings similar to those on the door to this room. He took it out and placed it on the desk.

Reaching out to open it, he heard the slapping noise again. He was certain this time that he had heard something and that it was not his imagination. “Is anybody there?”

He was greeted with silence, but now felt a sense of urgency that he should leave this house.

Quickly, he removed the lid of the pot and found a ring inside. It was made from gold, and set with a large black opal. Surrounding the opal was a gold setting in the shape of something that reminded him of octopus tentacles.

There was a brief moment of indecision, and then he quickly made up his mind that he would also take this ring and leave immediately. He took the ring and thrust it onto the middle finger of his left hand, and the room was immediately transformed into something entirely different from the place he had stood in moments ago.

It was as if the room had suddenly been revealed in a fullness that was not evident before, and he was seeing things that he could not previously see. He was not certain, but he felt that he was no longer alone in the room, and that there were at least two other people there. After a few seconds he became aware that there were indeed two other people in the room with him and he realized that they were talking. No, not talking: chanting. It was Latin. Yes, Latin. There was a baneful and malevolent fire burning in the fireplace that chilled him, and the odors in the room spoke of something dreadful about to occur. There was also a presence that he could not yet see or hear. A presence of something that was being summoned against its will, and he knew that no good would come of its summoning. He could now see that there was also a girl who appeared to be in her teens, who was obviously scared of something that she had knowledge of but he did not. She was naked and restrained by a chain that was connected to a stout iron ring fixed to the wall, but she was outside of what he now realized was the protective circle that the other occupants of the room stood in.

He heard the slapping sound again, but this time it seemed to be from more than one source, as if there were dozens of wet objects slapping against a solid surface. The room was going out of focus, and he felt as if he was being spun around. There were further sounds that seemed to be coming from above: hammering sounds as if someone was banging hard against a wooden surface; muffled voices shouting; and then the sound of smashing glass and breaking wood.

Jefferson dropped the flashlight and everything went dark.

**V**

The car was out of control and Jefferson struggled to keep it on the road. His wheels were inches from the ditch on the side of the road, but he jerked the wheel left and skidded as he jammed his foot on the brake.

He came to a halt diagonally across the two lanes of the interstate, and out of his driver’s side window he saw a huge truck bearing down on him, the driver pulling at the air horn as he hit the brakes.

Jamming his foot on the gas, Jefferson pulled onto the wide grass central median and threw the car into park.

He was covered in sweat, and trembling. It had been years since this memory had been buried and he didn’t know what had made him go through all of that again. With one hand groping for the seat belt, he used the other to open the door, and once free of the belt he stumbled out of the car and collapsed onto the damp grass.

After some time he started looking up and down either side of the highway. He had no clue where he was now, and didn’t remember anything since the thought that he had crossed more than half of North Carolina.

Getting to his feet, he at first leaned on the open car door, then got back in and closed the door. He had to find out where he was, and get coffee and something to eat. After taking a few minutes to regain his composure, he checked that nothing was coming, and pulled back on to the highway.

Within a minute or so, he saw a sign for gas and restaurants at the next exit, so when he reached it he pulled off the road. Pulling in to the nearest gas station, he realized that he had crossed Virginia, Maryland and Delaware with no memory of it. He was somewhere in New Jersey, but it didn’t really matter where. He was staying on I-95, so he just needed to get back on the highway and head north.

Five minutes later he had a coffee sitting next to him, and a stale Danish in his hand to stave off hunger. Not knowing what had made him think of that awful occasion, he tried to keep his mind off it, but it kept coming back to him.

After a couple more exit signs, he knew that he was around half way across New Jersey. He almost wished he had traveled during the day, but was thankful for the low amount of traffic that was on the roads as he approached New York.

He couldn’t get his mind off the thoughts that had come to him, so he started thinking of the aftermath of that day rather than the day itself.

He had been missed from the school party in Ipswich very quickly, and the teachers had called the police immediately.

Within a relatively short time, the police were talking to an elderly lady who had seen Jefferson get on the Innsmouth bus, and she was grateful for an audience to pass on her opinion that nothing good ever came of going to Innsmouth. The police had the bus company call the driver of the bus, and he confirmed that the boy had been on the bus, even though he tried to dissuade him from taking that journey.

With Jefferson’s father in the back seat, a police car sped towards Innsmouth, to intercept the bus. They stopped to speak with the driver, who was then asked to abandon the bus and travel with them as the car sped towards Innsmouth.

*

Jefferson had woken from his faint with his head rested on the knee of one of the police officers who was on his radio asking for medical backup. Other people came into focus and he recognized another police officer with a powerful flashlight, and his father! Behind them both was the surly face of the bus driver who had deposited him here in the town. Unable to keep his eyes open longer, he fainted once more.

Once he was lying in a hospital bed recovering and talking with his rescuers, he came to understand that the police had come looking for him, and his father had become more and more distressed as they reached the town center. The bus driver guided them to the town square, and his father had immediately headed for the house where they found Jefferson, becoming hysterical when he found the abandoned letter on the doorstep. When Jefferson’s father screamed that the door was locked and the key was back in his house in Arkham, the bus driver suggested that the back doors of these houses were usually more accessible, so one officer and the bus driver went to the back of the house while the other officer tried to calm down Jefferson’s father.

Knocking on the back door had elicited no response, but while the police officer tried to look in through the dirty windows, the driver simply kicked in the lock with his substantial body weight behind it. The glass panels in the door shattered as the door violently struck the wall behind it, and the driver entered with the police officer following.

Jefferson had been found lying in the basement on the dirt floor, and once the ambulance had arrived, he and his father had been transported to the hospital in Arkham.

He was questioned by the police, alternately screamed at and pleaded with to never go to the house again by his father, and poked and probed by the doctors for any signs of injury.

Throughout all of the events, he kept his eye on the backpack, which was initially picked up by one of the police officers and dumped in the back of the ambulance until it was eventually carried with him into the hospital and placed in a locker by the side of the bed that he lay in. He had looked at his hand for the ring, but it was missing when he came around. Perhaps it had fallen to the floor in the basement, so he presumed it lost.

Not knowing what had happened to him, Jefferson puzzled as to how he had ended up in the basement rather than the room behind the door. Somebody must have taken him from the room to the basement while he was unconscious, and when he regained consciousness on the dirt floor he also noticed that someone had moved many of the crates and barrels in front of the small door so it was obscured from sight.

The one thing that the events of that day did precipitate was the extreme changes in his father. Not only did the withdrawn nature of his personality since returning from prison disappear, he became the opposite: at first lecturing Jefferson on his reckless behavior, but then warning him that he should never return to that town.

The police had questioned him, but were unsure what to make of his jumbled and confused explanation. Nothing was found to be wrong with him medically, so he was discharged and given a sedative that he was to take to help him sleep that night.

Once back at home, the first thing that Jefferson did was to hide the book that he found, thankful that no one had opened his backpack, and a few days later it was hidden more safely under the floorboards in the attic. He tried to explain to his father what had gone on that day, but the violence of his father’s temper following the attempt told him that he was to never bring it up again.

From that point onwards his father watched over him like a hawk, and questioned his every movement. This was fine by Jefferson, as the only thing he had in mind to do now was to master Latin. He spent much of his spare time poring over Latin books and then digesting various Latin texts. His father seemed happy with this, as he saw that his son had a renewed interest in academic achievement, little realizing for what end he chose this pursuit.

Whenever he was alone in the house, Jefferson retrieved the book, but kept it well hidden from his father. In combination with what he already knew about architecture and this newly gained knowledge, he quickly progressed to being able to make drawings of things that should not exist. His teachers were horrified at what he was capable of, and when his father found out, he tore the house apart, and at one point he shook Jefferson violently asking “Where is it? Where IS IT?”

His father did not find the book, but from that point on he was careful to never show any aptitude for creating the strange, impossible designs that came so easily to him. The book remained hidden, and he spent weeks being a model student and model son to allay any suspicions.

When it came to preparing for college, his father expected him to attend Arkham University as he had done himself. This was not what Jefferson had in mind though, and sought out the author of a number of books that had impressed him greatly: the inimitable Xavier Winn.

Finding that Winn now resided in Atlanta, Jefferson persuaded his father to allow him to attend college there. His father was at first reticent, but then warmed to the idea, as it would take him out of the New England area, and away from any temptation to return to Innsmouth.

**VI**

As the sun rose above the buildings around him, Jefferson was passing through Salem, and almost back at his father’s house. He had stopped briefly at the office of his father’s attorney in Salem to pick up the key to the house, promising that he would return the following day after catching up on some sleep.

When he finally pulled up at the house, he was too tired to do anything but grab the suitcase from the trunk, enter the house, go to his old room and lay out on the bed without undressing. He was asleep almost instantly.

When he woke some hours later, he decided to go for a walk around the town, as he had not seen it for years. Pleased at reacquainting himself with the buildings that had fascinated him as a child, he returned to the house and began unpacking the other items from the car.

Once he had retrieved everything from the car, he resolved to do something that he had kept in the back of his mind ever since he had arrived back at the house: he headed to the attic to retrieve the book that had been hidden there since he left for college. It was gone, but he expected that his father would at some point uncover its hiding place, so it came as no surprise.

The following day he returned to Salem to hear the contents of his father’s will read out to him by the attorney he had briefly met the day before. He inherited the house, a certain amount of money, and some investments that his father had held.

Once the formalities of the will were dealt with, the attorney tried to engage in small talk, and Jefferson was irritated that he could not leave once the formalities were over. He was about to make his excuses to leave when something the attorney said piqued his interest:

“We were worried about him for a while, as he spent money on strange things like demolishing that house in Innsmouth”

“Excuse me? House? What house?”

“Oh, he owned the house back then. Belonged to your grandfather, but he took a pretty extreme dislike to it for some reason.”

Jefferson reeled at this news. The house was his grandfather’s house?

“What do you mean by ‘extreme dislike’?”

“He had a bulldozer and cement truck taken there. Took the whole house down, and then had the basement filled with concrete. Cost him a pretty penny to do that, and then he sold the land for next to nothing to the first person that offered him anything for it.”

Jefferson walked out of the office without saying another word, not hearing anything else the attorney said in parting.

He was unlikely to ever get to the bottom of this now that his father had passed, but his father must have known _something_ of what transpired in the room behind the basement that day.

There really was no time to give any thought to it though. He had arranged to meet the manager of his new office this afternoon for lunch, and then to start work the morning. If he had been able to get out of the lunch he would have done so, but his new boss was adamant, and she insisted that they should meet prior to the first day of work.

The lunch was as uncomfortable and pointless as he thought it would be, and it was obvious that his new boss had regretted setting it up. He had little appetite for food, and even less for conversation. After 30 minutes his boss looked at her watch and made excuses to end the lunch early, and Jefferson made no objections.

Jefferson did not sleep much that night, and when he did, his dreams were haunted by the events that he had played through his mind during the car journey northwards. So much detail that had been buried for years had come back with striking clarity, and at points it had felt very much like reliving the experiences.

After sporadic sleep, he woke early and walked to a small bakery he used to visit when he previously lived in the house. He knocked on the back door when he got there, knowing that he could get fresh rolls before the store was opened for the public. After eating breakfast, he took another walk around the town in the pre-dawn light, taking in the familiar sights of his childhood.

When the sun was high enough above the houses for him to start thinking about his commute to the bland, faceless office where he would be based for the coming months, he returned to the house and dressed in a suit. A short while later he was pulling away from the house and heading through Arkham to the Aylesbury road, where he would pick up the old, narrow road that would take him towards Danvers.

A short way out of Arkham, the traffic volume increased quickly, and in no time at all, he was at a standstill. He had always hated to be stuck in traffic, and what made it worse was that he knew to expect this as it had always been a bad road during rush hour. What made traffic worse than he remembered it was the business park that had been built on the Danvers road, a road completely unsuited to the volumes of traffic that such a place might attract. After a considerable wait to take the turn onto the Danvers road, he joined the rest of the traffic heading towards the business park. Ahead of him was a considerable time in traffic still if the slow speed of the cars in front was anything to go by.

The rest of the day was every bit as bad as he expected it to be. The business park was a sterile, characterless collection of boxes on a symmetrical pattern of tarmac lots, and the interiors were every bit as characterless as the exteriors. It seemed that his reputation had preceded him, as no one made any effort to engage him in conversation, but he was still obliged to speak with potential clients on the phone, which drained away all desire to stay in the office longer than he had to. Jefferson deliberately made an excuse to see a client in Arkham and left early.

With no traffic on the road in the middle of the afternoon, the drive back to Arkham was much less stressful than the drive to the office. He drove at a moderate speed, and took time to think about any other roads in the area that he could use to bypass the traffic. Nothing came to mind, and he was almost on the outskirts of Arkham when he saw something that puzzled him.

A car had driven across the grass to the right of the road and through a cutting between high grass mounds. There was no road there, but there were ruts in the ground that led him to believe that this was a common occurrence. The car was heading in the general direction of Danvers, so perhaps it was some kind of shortcut to Danvers?

At the last minute, Jefferson slowed the car and pulled off the road where he could see the ruts from car tires, and followed them. They led towards a pile of large rocks and pieces of concrete that had been piled at the end of what appeared to be an old paved road. The tire tracks diverged here, heading left and right of the pile that sat at the end of the road, and were then lost from view.

He thought about the time he had left this afternoon for work, but knew he could get what he wanted from the client in much less time than he had allowed, so he turned to the right of the piled rocks and concrete and started driving on the paved, but heavily potholed road. Almost immediately, the rocky land to the right of the road started to rise, and he realized that this would make the road almost invisible from the road to Danvers. Looking ahead he could see that it eventually rose to some 40 or 50 feet above the level of the road, and to his left the land started to do the same, reaching approximately the same height. From the Danvers road, this appeared to be nothing more than a long stretch of high rocky ground with no evidence that a road ran in this direction.

After driving less than 5 minutes, and with the land either side considerably above the level of his car roof he realized that he could make out headlights ahead. Quickly acknowledging that the narrowness of the ravine he was driving through made it pretty dark, he flicked on his own headlights for the benefit of the approaching car.

Jefferson was taken completely unawares by the speed at which the car passed him. He was traveling at a relatively sedate speed himself, but this car had flown past him at a high speed. He continued on his way for a little less than a quarter mile when he saw a police car pulled off the road where there was a strip of grassaround 50 feet long and maybe 20 wide. As he approached it, he saw the blue lights come on, and the driver got out of the car and waved Jefferson to pull off the road and behind his car. As he did so, he confirmed what he had thought from a distance: this vehicle was a relic from the 1960s, and certainly not something he had seen in use during his lifetime.

As he put the car in park, he rolled down the window, reached for his wallet and pulled out his driver’s license. He was getting his registration from the center console when the officer said, “I don’t need that. What the hell are you doing driving so slow?”

Jefferson couldn’t believe his ears. Slow? What about the car that had just passed this cop? Surely that was a candidate for a speeding citation if ever he had seen one, and now he was being asked why he was driving so slowly?

“Excuse me?”

The cop squinted his eyes at what Jefferson had in his hand: “Show me that license.”

He had held the license in his hand while talking, so handed it over to the cop when asked.

As he took the license, Jefferson took a good look at him. The uniform looked as old as the car, and on the sleeve he noted “Kingsport Police Department”. The man himself looked like he did not belong in a police uniform, and Jefferson started to have doubts as to whether or not this man was actually a police officer. The old craggy face with enormous wiry gray eyebrows and deep set eyes seemed overly alert, and Jefferson wondered if the man had taken any drugs. He was unshaven and had a stench about him of days old body odor, and his uniform was crumpled as if he had spent days in the car without leaving it.

“Georgia, huh? Seems like you’re a long way from…what the..?”

The cops eyes opened wide and he peered in again at Jefferson’s face before scrutinizing the license again. Something other than the out of state license had bothered him for a reason that he could not determine.

Jefferson had not thought to change his license, and certainly had not had enough time to do so. His suspicions aroused about this man, who now seemed to vacillate between indecision and anger, he asked “Can I see some official ID?”

The cop whipped out a dirty, but official looking ID and held it to Jefferson’s face. It seemed completely at odds with everything else as it was a modern police ID, and on it Jefferson read the name Josiah Paine. He also saw the status section that read ‘Full/Active’.

As the ID was withdrawn Jefferson heard: “I asked you what you’re doing here.”

“I live here. Just moved here, and haven’t changed my license yet.”

“I don’t care about that. What are you doing on this road?”

“The place I work is on the Danvers road, and with the traffic so busy I thought I’d check this out to see if…“

“This road don’t go nowhere. Ain’t no shortcut. Ain’t no road to be on for any driver that wants to remain legal. Get back on the roads over yonder and don’t let me catch you on this one again!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I’ll turn around and head back.”

“You better! If I see you on this road again I’ll see that car gets impounded and ends up in the crusher!”

The conversation was obviously at an end, so Jefferson put his documents away and put the car into drive. He turned the car around and started on his way back. In the rear view mirror he saw the cop standing behind his car and watching him all the way.

As he drove back he had a feeling of déjà vu. He had felt it as he pulled up behind the cop and it stayed with him all the time he conversed with him. It was something he couldn’t put his finger on, but it felt like a sensation he had experienced before. The whole confrontation was bizarre, but there was something else that happened that he felt he did not understand.

Later that evening after he had dealt with the client and had eaten dinner, Jefferson got online and checked maps of the area. The road he had been on was not shown on any maps, and even looking at satellite views, he could only make out the start of the road, as the rest of it was obscured by the overhang of the ravine.

The rest of the week was torture for Jefferson: he had to deal with the appalling traffic, the inquisitive people in the office, the unimaginative clients, and the meetings with his father’s attorney to tie up various loose ends.

By the time he reached the weekend he was glad to have some time to think. Every day he had passed by the strange road he had been stopped on, and on one occasion he had seen another car drive onto the grass and towards where he knew the road started. Without knowing where else to turn, he drove into downtown Arkham to the library of Miskatonic University and asked to have access to some of the old maps of Arkham and the surrounding areas.

It didn’t take long before he found evidence of the road on a map from the late 18th century, and saw that it led from just outside of Arkham to a fork where it either led to Danvers or Kingsport. None of the existing roads that would have crossed it were on this map, so he surmised that the newer ones must have superseded this one as the main route to those towns. What was puzzling was the fact that it was paved with modern materials. Why would an old road be paved?

Looking through other maps, he realized that this road had continued to exist for some time after the new roads has been built. He spent a few hours looking through maps, city records and many old newspapers that had now been digitized. It seemed that this road had been maintained up until 1963, at which point the decision had been made to abandon it, a decision that had come about in response to a number of disappearances on the road that had been blamed on its isolation and poor visibility at night, making it a haven for those wishing to prey on lone drivers. Besides, the newer roads provided adequate access between Arkham, Danvers and Kingsport, so it made complete sense from a law enforcement and public funding perspective.

With this new knowledge in hand, Jefferson drove to find the other entry points to the road, starting on Route 1A where he would find the part of the road that headed to Kingsport.

When he reached the point where he expected to see the road he could find nothing, and despite driving back and forth a few times, he could not find any evidence of the road.

Heading towards Danvers, he looked for the road there, and on his second drive by saw a number of tire tracks off the road at the point where he thought he would find it. Driving off the road, he found the same situation where the road had been blocked by a pile of rock and concrete, yet there was a way to drive around it and get on the road here too.

Was this where the other drivers he had seen had come from or been heading to? His only concern was the cop who had stopped him, but he thought he would at least try going some distance down the road and would plead ignorance that it was the other end of the same road if necessary.

Not too far along the road he came to a narrow one lane bridge that he thought to be the counterpart to the bridge over the Bass River on the Danvers road that he had crossed each morning as he traveled to work. He crossed it slowly so that he could take a look at the old stone and peer down into the river, but as he passed on to the other side he heard the frantic honking of a car horn; he moved fully on to the right side of the road, and another car passed him, gaining speed as it sped onwards and into the ravine that rose up ahead of him.

Jefferson pulled over to think, keeping an eye on the rear view mirror. Obviously the cop had no issues with people driving fast, only those who drove slowly. Perhaps if he drove fast there would be no problem, but the cop would recognize his car, so it might not be so easy to get past him. He then thought about his father’s Oldsmobile in the garage: maybe he could take that and go unrecognized? It also had Massachusetts plates on it, so it would not look like it was from out of state.

He turned the car around and headed back the way he came, thinking that he could head to Arkham, get the car and be back on the other end of this road in not too much time at all.

When he sat in his father’s car in the garage and tried to start it, there was nothing. Feeling disappointed that he could not start driving immediately, he rested his head on the steering wheel and tried to think of where he could get another car. He then remembered the mechanic his father had always used, who would come to the house to look at the car, so he jumped out and briskly walked to his small auto shop a couple of streets away.

Thirty minutes later, Jefferson and the elderly mechanic had pushed the car out on to the driveway and the hood was raised with the sound of tinkering going on underneath. In less than 10 minutes the car was running, so Jefferson handed over the amount of cash that the mechanic requested and was soon on the road again.

When he reached the area where he had left the road on the day he encountered the cop, he drew in a breath and pulled off onto the grassy area leading to the road. Once he was on the road, he put his foot down and headed into the ravine. Very soon, he saw the cop car ahead and pushed harder on the gas. It was a strange feeling to deliberately speed when he saw a cop, but it seemed to work as there was no reaction other than what appeared to be a nod towards the car as he passed.

Keeping constant pressure on the gas pedal, he looked carefully ahead to be sure that he didn’t come across any unexpected turns. A very short distance ahead he saw a path to his left, leading to a shadowy building behind a thick clump of trees and shrubs. As he reached it, there was that same overwhelming feeling of familiarity, but much stronger this time and accompanied by a sudden haziness of sight and mind. He found it hard to focus on the road and moved his foot from the gas to the brake. He didn’t think the cop was following, but had to take a chance as his head was swimming.

Struggling hard to focus, he continued to drive, but the further he got from the house, the easier it became. Some time later he reached the one lane bridge he had crossed earlier from the other direction, and continued to the end of the road and pulled up by the pile of concrete and rock.

His hands were gripped tight to the wheel and when he removed them they were shaking. He was sweating and breathing hard. He knew the feeling now: it was the same feeling he had all those years ago when he had been in the house in Innsmouth and put on the ring that he had found in the desk.

**VII**

Back at the house, he sat and thought carefully about the events of the day. It was a dumb thing to do, as the cop may have carried out his threat whatever car he was driving, but something was just not right. If the cop was so intent on watching for drivers who didn’t belong there, why was he so careless this time with Jefferson’s father’s car?

His father’s car – that was it! The cop had nodded as the car passed him because he recognized the car! It made sense but it threw up a lot more questions. Why would his father have used that road? His father never went to Danvers during rush hour and had no reason to take that road. And the cop’s reaction to the license: while Eliot was not an extremely rare name, he certainly bore a resemblance to his father, and the cop may have realized who he was. But if he knew his father, why would he want to keep him off the road?

With no more thoughts that made any sense, Jefferson went out for a walk. He had to get to the bottom of this as it was making less sense the more he turned it over in his mind. His thoughts wandered around the strange feeling he felt when passing the shadowy house behind the trees, but none of that made any sense either.

After some time he found himself heading towards the library at Miskatonic University again, and once sat at one of the library’s computers, he started researching the Eliot family name. He knew that his family had lived in the Arkham area for many years, and were descended from the original settlers in Arkham. He found records of his father inheriting the house in Innsmouth some years ago when his his grandfather had been declared officially dead after being reported missing for a number of years, and he also found the records of the sale of the land that it had sat on for just one dollar.

Perhaps to understand why the house was hated so much he needed to know more about his grandfather. According to the inheritance records, his grandfather’s name was Caleb Eliot. He looked up the old parish records that had been transcribed and saved in a database, but could not find a record for his birth in Arkham. Looking further afield, he could not find it in any of the nearby Massachusetts towns, yet he knew that his family had arrived with the original settlers in the 17th century. Removing all the filters from his search he found a number of records that matched the name in Arkham, but none were more recent than the early 18th century.

He then turned to his mother’s family, but when he found records of her birth, he was surprised to find that her father was listed as ‘unknown’ and that her mother was listed as deceased at her birth. He had known that his grandmother had died before he was born, but no one had ever told him that she had died giving birth to his mother.

Why was he only finding out these things now?

He looked for his grandmother’s death record to see if that would provide any answers and found that she had died giving birth to the second of twins. Twins?

Quickly Jefferson returned to his mother’s birth record and found that on the same day there were recorded two births, his mother and a male child not named. He slammed his fist on the desk in anger. Why had his parents never told him of this? Why had he been deceived over his family history? Others in the library were staring at him, so he held in his anger and continued to search.

No matter how he searched, he could not find any record of his mother’s twin other than the birth record. The only aunt he was aware of was his father’s sister, but he had always thought of his mother as an only child as that is what he had been told.

He needed to get out for air, so he left quickly and took a walk around the library grounds.

Nothing made sense. Why would there be so many gaps in the records and why would his family keep things from him?

Later that evening he returned to his father’s house with no more answers than he had when he left the library. With the limited sleep he had over the past week, he decided to retire early as that might help clear his head.

He quickly fell asleep, and with many thoughts on his mind, started to dream of the New England of his youth. He remembered the days he spent with his mother, who always seemed the opposite of his staid and disciplined farther: she wanted to explore new things, and had a zest for life that was contagious. Jefferson had loved her very much, and didn’t understand why she had left him without any explanation, and and why she had not ever tried to contact him again.

The dreams of his youth quickly gave way to a much older New England that had sometimes haunted his dreams where he opened up portals to strange, alien lands where he sometimes got inspiration for the architectural designs that set him aside from those he worked with. He traveled through the towns and communities that existed when the original settlers had struggled to survive the harsh winters, where some had made unhealthy bargains with those who had dwelt there for many generations before they arrived. Dark dealings in dark, hidden places near the ocean had allowed those families to survive, and as the more permanent dwellings went up, they were built near to the ocean, and had the ocean smell beneath the beams that supported them.

One man began to dominate all of them over time, and even when the settlers could stand on their own feet without help from outsiders, he demanded that they keep their promises and continue to give what was promised.

Jefferson started to toss and turn in his sleep, and had anyone been in the room with him, they would have heard him speaking in a strange tongue that few living people would have recognized.

In his dream the man who dominated the settlers became a cruel tyrant, and as the town grew, the population came to fear him more and more. Human sacrifices were called for, and the youth of the town began to dwindle as those who were chosen were taken by this man and his minions who crept in the shadows, and few if any returned. Those who did return were adolescent girls, but they were returned broken in mind and shunned by all.

As the town grew ever larger, Jefferson started to recognize it, and that he had been there: he saw Innsmouth growing before his eyes.

As the tyrant grew ever more powerful, there were those who plotted against him. He demanded more and more from them until they rose up and drove him from the town. It did them no good though, as there were those living among them who were bred from both the stock of the settlers and of those who were there before, and they ensured that little would change in the town, even with its tyrant deposed.

The man was filled with anger and hatred towards the people who had ousted him, and he began to plan his return. He did not travel far, and moved along the coast with his shadowy allies until they reached Davenport, where he settled. Having learned his lesson from Innsmouth, his presence was much more low-key, and he was soon foremost among those who had dealings with the Deep Ones there.

Not content to dwell in Davenport, the man made inroads back into Innsmouth. Jefferson watched the town build up to start resembling what it currently looked like, and saw the man build his own house in Innsmouth. As he focused more on the man, he suddenly realized that he was dreaming of the house he visited in Innsmouth in his childhood, and in his dream he looked directly into the eyes of the tyrant, the same dark, soulless eyes as his grandfather!

**VIII**

Jefferson now sat in his father’s car, racing through the center of Arkham with his window rolled down, but with sweat still pouring down his face. He had awoken screaming and wide eyed, and immediately put on pants, shoes and a jacket and ran downstairs to the car.

He almost lost control of the car taking the turn north to head towards Innsmouth, and took his foot off the gas slightly, but still maintained a high speed. He had no clue what time it was as the clock in his father’s 40 year old car didn’t seem to be functioning and he hadn’t stopped to pick up his watch. Driving past a gas station he saw an illuminated clock and took in that it was a few minutes after midnight.

He reached the town square of Innsmouth around 15 minutes later, and pulled up to the nearest curb. He jumped out of the car and looked to see if he could recognize Waite Street. He was uncertain in the dark which one it was, so he got back in the car and drove to the one that was his best guess so that his headlights shone down the street. The headlights revealed a gap in the houses on the right hand side, which could easily be the house that his father had razed.

Pulling the car carefully down the narrow street, Jefferson turned it slightly to allow the headlights to spill on to the area where the building had sat. He got out of the car and ran to the space where the house had once stood. The ground was obviously all concrete now, and he could see nothing other than a uniform rectangular space that was once occupied by a house. He was unsure why he had even come here.

Knowing there was nothing else to see here he returned to the car and slowly drove it to the end of the street to get back onto wider roads and to head south to Arkham again.

Once he passed through Arkham, he drove off the road and headed toward the mysterious road beyond. It was probably 1 am by now, but he was wide awake.

He drove slowly until he was on the paved road, then he drove faster, now more confident on the road he had traversed twice already. The ever present police car came into view and he passed it as he braked, slowing down to come to a halt next to the path to the house that lay beyond.

As he passed the police car a spotlight on the side had been shone on him, and the blue lights started flashing. He saw the car pull onto the road and follow him, but he was too determined to worry about that now.

His path to the house was blocked by the police car pulling in front of him, and the same grizzled cop got out and leaned across the roof pointing his side arm at Jefferson.

“Hold it right there! Keep away from the house!”

Jefferson strode purposefully around the car towards the cop, who followed him with the gun still leveled at him. He looked hard at the cop, turned away from him, and faced the house. He knew the cop's gun was aimed squarely at his head, but he also knew that he would not pull the trigger.

The light from his car headlights shone between the trees and partly illuminated the house. It was a small two story wooden house that looked as if there was little holding it together other than the dirt and creeping plants that had covered it over time. The roof was patched and repaired, but the moss and dirt probably constituted as much of the roof’s current structure as the ancient wooden roof shingles. The windows were covered with a thick layer of grime, and the entire structure was covered with a green patina from the years of mold and moss that had grown there.

Jefferson walked down the path to the front of the house without looking back at the cop. As he approached it fear crept up and he stopped on the path. Resolved to go on, he forced one foot in front of the other, and continued towards the door he could now see. Sweat was pouring down his face and his whole body felt chilled from the damp night and his sweat soaked shirt.

The house was very old, but essentially sound in structure. The windows were far too dirty for the headlights to penetrate the filth on them, and there was no sign of light or life from within. The door appeared to be made of formidably thick planks of oak bound with rusted iron. Jefferson raised his hand to the door and paused before touching it. He took a deep breath and relaxed before placing his hand on it.

Pushing against the door did not budge it, so Jefferson pushed harder. The door was held by something on the far side, but when he leaned his weight against the door, Jefferson felt the inside latch break then heard the noise of it falling to the floor. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He felt like he could scream, and that his sanity was hanging by a thread. He mustered all his strength and clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly until he felt he could open his eyes, which had been closed shut since the moment he stepped through the door.

It was dark inside with the door closed, but after a short while he could make out a doorway to his right, and stairs on the back wall heading upwards to the left, where dim moonlight shone from above.

He had that sense of déjà vu he had last time he passed the house, but it was magnified ten fold. He knew he could master this, and after a few moments was more in control of himself. There was more of a sense of purpose this time and after much effort to control his emotions, he felt prepared for what was before him.

When he heard a deep quiet laugh from upstairs, it confirmed his thoughts on what was waiting for him.

Walking to the ancient stairs, he ascended slowly but confidently, despite the sounds of the aged steps flexing under his weight. At the top of the stairs he turned left for the final few steps, and then turned left again to face the length of the upstairs room, which was dimly lit by the moonlight that shone in through the gaps in the ragged curtains that covered the windows.

Across the room from the top of the stairs was a man sat cross legged on the floor with his folded arms across the top of his knees, and his head bowed forwards. Once again the laugh quietly escaped from beneath the downturned face.

“I have been waiting for thee.”

The voice sounded distant, as if spoken from across a space much larger than this room, or perhaps from a dimension more removed from those that Jefferson existed in.

“You are an abomination! You are no better than those abominations that you chose to side with over your fellow men!”

This time the laugh was loud and the man threw his head back, revealing thick black hair and beard and eyes that were darker than the darkest corner of this unlit room.

“Abominations?”

He laughed again: a laugh that disturbed Jefferson. He had come here with confidence, but the laugh made him feel that he was being laughed at because he had not understood something that was very important.

“Thou hast not yet understood then!”

“I understand enough, and although we are blood, I have come here to end it right now.”

“And what dost thou have that is potent against me?”

Jefferson knew that he had no answer to this, but also knew that the same was true of the man sitting opposite him.

As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he started to make out the shapes of objects in the room. There was a small table on his right, and upon it were some objects that he eventually recognized as candles, matches and an old fashioned oil lamp. Reaching for the matches, he struck one, and lit the oil lamp. It did not throw out much light, but it was enough to make Jefferson more comfortable than he had felt in the darkened room.

With the room better lit, Jefferson could see for the first time that his grandfather (for it was he) sat within a wide circle of powder on the floor. He saw Jefferson's gaze and nodded.

“It binds me to this place.”

“I know” was Jefferson's answer, although until his grandfather said it, he did not know this.

“She keeps me here.”

This time Jefferson did not know what was meant, and stayed silent, waiting for his grandfather to say something else, but all he saw was a look of realization on his grandfather's face followed by more laughter.

“You do not know!”

Not being able to keep up the pretense, and still thinking about the previous comment to the effect that he did not understand, he sighed and said “Tell me then.”

“Sit.”

A small stool sat on the far side of the table from Jefferson. He moved it to the stairs side of the table, and sat down on it. As he did so and returned his gaze to the old man, his heart almost jumped out through his mouth: on the edge of the circle of powder was the gold ring that he had put on his finger in that basement room so many years before. There was no doubt about it: that ring was unique in appearance and he would never forget it. He stayed silent about the ring and looked directly at the man seated on the floor.

“Thy mother, twas she brought me to this place. She had plenty of reason to hate me, more than thou needest to know, but I was swayed by her persuasiveness after she took me away from thy father's anger, and it saved me from the flames he set for me. I had little reason to believe that she had any of the knowledge that thy father had declined to learn, but I learned to my dismay that she had learned how to bind me to this place.”

“And for these years you have been unable to leave this place. It is only your unnatural method of long life that has preserved you here, or you would be no more.

“But my mother? Where is she?”

Another laugh escaped him, quieter this time, but with more malevolence than those Jefferson had previously heard. “She did not reckon on my ability to draw her brother here.”

“Her brother? What do you mean by her brother? She has no brother…”

“He chose The Deep. I do not expect thou to understand yet, but he wast more mine than he ever belonged to her family. Thy mother was no match for him.”

Jefferson did not want to know any more. He glanced down the stairs, and then returned his eyes to his grandfather.

“I do not know what happened and I don’t think I want to know. You should not exist, and the World would be better off without you. I have let you speak for too long. Now it is time for this to end!”

He picked up the oil lamp and threw it at his seated grandfather. He turned to run down the stairs when he heard the laughter again, this time louder and longer than previously. The floor was burning, yet his grandfather sat unconcerned and unaffected by the flames.

“Fool! How dost thou think I have lived these centuries? Thy petty mind does not comprehend the number of dimensions that I might travel in. Trapped within this circle? It is only this one dimension in which I am imprisoned, and when this edifice is destroyed, I will be free here too!”

The flames were taking hold of the old, dry wood of the wall behind his grandfather quickly, and Jefferson immediately comprehended what he had done: his grandfather would soon be free as the sagging floor collapsed and the protective circle would be destroyed. He also thought about what he had just heard about multiple dimensions and realized that his grandfather did not know that Jefferson had access to the book that he had found and spent many years poring over.

It all came together in his mind in one brief instant. Jefferson took a deep breath and walked towards the circle. Reaching down, he took up the ring and held is up in front of his grandfather, who stopping laughing and got to his feet. He pushed it on to the middle finger of his right hand, and was instantly transported to somewhere other than the room, yet also part of the room.

He thought briefly of the time he was a child, yet this was different: he knew exactly what was happening this time.

The flames had quickly taken a hold on the floor, and were now licking around Jefferson's feet, but he chose not to allow himself to intersect with that particular dimension and knew that the flames could not hurt him. His grandfather had done the same, and stood waiting for the flames to consume the house; the floor was starting to sag, and any second now it would collapse and the protective circle would be destroyed.

One more time his grandfather started to laugh, but this time the laughter had no humor or triumph as he raised an arm to look at the flames that had caught at his clothes. Looking towards Jefferson, he saw the smile on his face.

“I know more than you give me credit for old man. I have worn this ring once before, and that is enough for me to know that I can bind you to this dimension.”

He raised his other arm to see it likewise in flame and seconds later his scream was cut off as the ancient building collapsed and the old man disappeared in the flames.

Jefferson stepped out from the wreckage of the building and away from the flames. He reached the road again, so he slipped the ring off his finger.

The cop stood trembling at the front of his car, hat in hand, and staring at the burning pile of wood that was a house but a minute earlier. He saw Jefferson walk out of the burning building without any appearance of being burned, and he saw him reach to his finger, remove a ring and pocket it.

The cop took one step towards Jefferson and stopped. He put his hat back on his head and looked Jefferson directly in the face.

“Your mother, she...”

“I know. You can go home now...or retire...or just get some sleep. Whatever you want. It's over.”

Jefferson got into his father's car, started it, and drove slowly down the road away from the burning house, in no hurry to get anywhere fast.

**IX**

A month after Jefferson had moved back to his home town permanently, he was settling in to a new job at a small architect's office in Arkham, having given notice at his previous company the Monday after the events at the old house on the abandoned highway. The offices were based on the second floor of an old building overlooking Miskatonic University, and much closer to the family home.

Now happy to design in the styles of Old New England and specialize in restoration of the oldest of the buildings in the area, all thoughts of the strange dimensions that he had visited were put to the back of his mind in an area that he intended to close off for good.

Jefferson felt a peace of mind that he had never felt before, but he had a feeling that something was drawing him to another place in a way that he could not understand. He remained withdrawn from most people, but no longer felt the sense of loneliness that he had felt for many years. The sense of being drawn somewhere stayed with him though, and no matter what changed in his life he could not shake it.

A few short years later, on an overcast winter morning, he visited his bank to get access to his safe deposit box. After leaving the bank, he got in his car and drove towards the coastal roads.

*

When the Arkham police followed up on the missing person’s report that was filed by his employer, they traced his car to a desolate oceanfront road on the outskirts of Davenport. No one seemed to have seen anything or was willing to provide any help, so the cops called in a request to tow the car and returned to their vehicle. When they reached the vehicle, an old man in ragged, dark blue clothes was waiting.

In a croaking voice stinking of cheap whiskey, he begged them to listen to his story of the man in the car that now stood abandoned, who was met after dark by the Deep Ones on the beach, and that he shed his clothes and entered the water with them. They listened briefly, but made the same excuses that they always made when confronted by the town drunk, and left without even considering taking down any kind of report.

As they drove away the old man still held in his hands the two items that he was trying to show them: a gold ring set with a large black opal, and a Kingsport Police ID in the name of Josiah Paine.


End file.
